A Smoke For Your Troubles

It’s called autolysis, and it starts the minute you die. A corpse won’t stink for two days, but autolysis is right there from the beginning. Microbes. They go to work immediately, but like all things in the natural, most humans notice too late. Anyway, I hoped that was the case. I didn’t know how long the middle-aged man’s body had been in my trunk, and the fast-approaching lights blinding me in the rear-view mirror were the dreaded red-blue-red-blue combo.

I really hoped it hadn’t been two days.

The cop spent what felt like hours (why do they always do that? maddening) before swaggering up to my window. His small gold nameplate read, Sgt Studwick. He gave a brief, curt smile and took a quick survey of my frayed cloth seats. I can only imagine he saw the crumpled cigarette packs (bad habit, I know) crushed in the back and possibly the occasional fast-food bag shoved shamefully under the passenger seat, too.

He glanced to the left to admire my beater’s red hood, flaked in several spots, which revealed the faint original green paint (fender bender, you can’t beat the junk yard). He twisted his plump neck ever so slowly to admire my mismatched door (see above). Then he continued to the trunk.

I stopped breathing.

He knows.

I could see my mother crying through the dirty plexiglass, a corded phone shaking slightly against her ear, face to face with her baby boy, a felon.

Oh God. Oh God.

He turned back to me and motioned to the window.

“Officer?” I couldn’t believe how high my voice was.

“License and proof of insurance.” His voice low, commanding.

He knows.

I pulled my wallet out of who knows where and fumbled with my license and car insurance, dropping both. I think I made a noise.

He did not.

He snatched them out of my hand, made a show of agreeing that, yes, the person on the license and the driver were indeed the same person. He frowned for a second, lost in thought.

“Daniel Sutton, Jr.?”

“Y-yes?”

“Seems familiar. I know you?”

Yes, Sergeant Strudwick, proprietor of the future, you know me from the news, ‘Quiet town undone by body in trunk. Chief suspect, one Daniel Sutton, Jr. His mother is most disappointed.’

“I don’t think so.”

He didn’t answer so much as grumble an acknowledgment.

“You know why I pulled you over?’

Oh God. The moment.

“No?” I squeaked.

His eyes narrowed.

Time ceased.

“Taillight.”

“What?”

“Taillight’s out.”

“O-oh. They were working fine until today. I’m sorry. I’ll fix them.”

“I’ll have to write you a ticket.”

Of course. “Well, I understand, officer.”

He walked back to his car to work his mysteries.

I sighed, letting that knot in my stomach unravel. He didn’t know.

I was safe.

He came back, little clipboard thing in hand, and as I was about to sign it, he pulled back. His eyes were wide in what appeared to be recognition.

He figured it out. I’m sorry, Mom.

“Sutton, Jr. Do you work at Hopewell Helps over on Eaton? By Willy B’s BBQ?”

“I’m a pharm tech there.”

“You do my Mami.”

“What?”

He looked slightly embarrassed. “Ethel Studwick. My grandmother. You do her meds. She’s talked about you before.”

I must have looked properly dumbfounded.

He sighed, already hating that he said a word. “Tiny thing. Probably wears flannel or an old army jacket. Never takes her sunglasses off. Raspy voice.”

Metaproterenol and tiotropium bromide. An acute case of emphysema, the weakened lung condition. I’ve bummed a few cigarettes off her during my breaks in the courtyard. She teased me because I like menthols. Offered me stuffed olives. I tended to decline. She was my smoke break, nothing more. Her name was Ethel, apparently.

“She says you acknowledge her existence.” Studwick said it plainly, but there was something behind his voice, an irregularity in the breath. He looked away and lost himself in his thoughts. I drummed nervously on my steering wheel while my lower back pooled in sweat. Studwick was weeping.

This usually occurred. People open up to the plain, unassuming stranger with good bedside manner. Being the distant shoulder to cry on was an easy price to pay for free stuff like cigarettes. Or favors.

My father was mostly a stranger to emotion. He was a stranger to me as well, come to think of it. Our only bonding was when I showed some interest in his work. Still, in those moments there was less feeling and more of a focused passion for science, doing the job right. Probably where I inherited an uncanny ability convince people my knowledge made me trustworthy, and my profession made me discreet. I cleared my throat, perhaps as a vague attempt at sympathy.

“Sorry. It’s been a tough few days. Family issues.” He attempted to steady himself with a large breath, but a larger sob escaped. I winced.

Please just give me the damn ticket and leave. I gingerly stuck my tremoring hand out the window, daring to study the sergeant as he proceeded to wipe his eyes with his sleeve. Here stood the man who could send me to prison for the rest of my life and sleep soundly the very same night. I softly patted him on the arm that leaned against the mismatched door. He sucked in dusty air in that rattly manner one does after emptying oneself in a big way. A dribble of snot slid down my mismatched door. He wiped his face again.

“Uh, look, forget the ticket. Just fix your taillight, okay?”

What.

“Sure, you’ll never see this car again, officer.” I gave a pitiful smile.

He smiled back, sighing contentedly before wandering back to his squad car. He paused briefly at the trunk. I held my breath, but he continued to his car. He started up and sputtered back onto the two-way country road. He waved briefly at me as he passed by and I nearly forgot to wave back.

I sat there for only a moment, listening to my own ragged breath. My hands continued to shake, and the world spun a little. I reached under my seat to pull out the small worn black notebook. Its small pencil was still tucked under the band. I opened to the earmarked page to check a set of fresh coordinates carefully written below the others. It was always the same. No names, just a set of numbers. A prescription for the map.

I reached under again, this time for the lockbox. There’d be a manila folder inside with two hundred Benjamin Franklins. Time to drive to the key.

I pulled up to the spot an hour later, my trusty map laid out on the passenger seat. I checked the area, even though I knew it’d be deserted. I stepped out, opened the trunk. A routine rhythm. Next to the departed was a shovel. Dad was a great coroner, and I learned from a young age that death didn’t bother me so much. I didn’t know who the body was, but I never did.

I checked his pockets for cigarettes before I buried him.